


Splice

by tinsnip



Series: Rewiring [2]
Category: Deep Dish Nine - Fandom, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe, Deep Dish Nine, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 08:40:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinsnip/pseuds/tinsnip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where do you go after "I forgive you?"</p><p>Garak isn't sure if there's anything left of him, now. There doesn't seem to be much left of Julian either. This is the story of how they try to find each other again.</p><p>Set in the alternate universe of Deep Dish Nine. This story uses Lady Yate-Xel's version of Julian and Elim, with the occasional Tinsnip twist. It is not part of their "canon", as it were; it's just an idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyYateXel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyYateXel/gifts).



> Happy birthday, Lady Yate-Xel! You are lovely and excellent and I feel quite happy that you decided that this planet was the one you'd like to be born on. I hope the coming year brings you wonderful things!
> 
> This fic is heavily influenced by ["Wrap Your Arms Around Me"](https://itunes.apple.com/ca/album/gordon/id283789996) by the Barenaked Ladies (lyrics [here](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/barenakedladies/wrapyourarmsaroundme.html)), and if you like the song, please buy it. The whole album is pretty classic, actually.
> 
> Beta'd by [Vyc](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vyc/pseuds/Vyc), who took no prisoners. Thank you, my dear. You've made me better. (See? I was about to use a semi-colon there, and I didn't~!)

_i put my hands around your neck, and you wrap your arms around me_

_—_ _the barenaked ladies,_ _“wrap your arms around me”_

_* * *_

The windshield wipers flick, flick, flick the rain away as their rental car travels through the grey fall afternoon.

Garak keeps the speed at a steady 60 kph on the rural road; there’s no need to rush, and the driving is a bit tricky in this forested area. They’ve seen animals in the woods, and fallen trees, and he has no desire to encounter any of those things at a high speed, especially with how the road twists and winds.

Julian, beside him, fiddles with the radio, trying to find a decent station. It’s hard, out here, as they leave the range of most of Alpha City’s stations, and eventually he sighs and settles on a public radio station that fades in and out, crackling. The music is tolerable, at least: it’s some kind of folk show, with soft guitars and lyrical voices, and neither of them hates it enough to turn it off.

It’s something to listen to, anyway. And it’s easier than talking.

This is day twenty-eight. He should really stop marking off his life in days; it’s a bit morbid, but he’s gotten used to it. Starting over needs some kind of benchmark, after all. And oddly, in starting over, in remaking himself as who he now needs to be, he’s found that he is exactly who he was before. More or less.

He finds that he never knows, day to day, whether it will be more or less.

More is for days when the sun shines and he can warm himself under it, not wondering how much of the pleasure it gives him is due to the tablet he chewed an hour before. More is for days when he is out running errands, and catches himself thinking of how much time before he needs to get back home for his next dose, and realizes that it doesn’t matter: that shackle is broken. More is for days when he manages to make Julian laugh, honestly laugh, unselfconscious and joyful and as he was before.

Less is for every other day, when he wakes up in pain, when he walks like an old man, when his coffee tastes like nothing and he scents his skin with nothing and his books natter about nothing, nothing, nothing. Less is for the days spent in his shop, lighting low and heat set high, unable to stop hearing the quiet radio playing for ambiance, grinding his teeth. Less is for the days when Julian won’t stop smiling, when Garak can’t follow the thread of their conversation, when Julian asks him how he is feeling and Garak knows what he really means.

Sun helps. Julian helps. But both of those things are in short supply these days, in the fading fall, with grey rain soaking the streets. What little light filters into his dark apartment is pale and sad and nourishes him not at all, and Julian…

He’s known for some time that Julian is more than he appears to be. He’d picked up on that rather early on, and he’d quite enjoyed watching Julian the chameleon shape himself to whatever his situation called for. He’d watched him laugh and joke and tease with friends, with co-workers, and that had been delightful, because he’d known the secret. He’d known that later, when they were alone, Julian would sigh and stretch and shrug it all away, “Thank _God_ that’s over with, Elim…” and would collapse on the couch to read or study or nap, one-hundred-percent himself, knowing that Garak liked him just as he was, knowing that he was safe to be with. It had been both a privilege and a pleasure to see him that way, to see the truth of him.

The Julian he knows now is a Julian who seems very much the same. He acts the way people expect him to act. When he’s alone with Garak, he lets the mask drop. The revelation is that now there is another mask underneath, previously unsuspected. _Has it always been there, I wonder?_

He knows exactly when he first saw that new mask. Oddly, it wasn’t when he had attacked Julian, trying to ruin what was between them. It had been when he’d tried to rebuild what he’d torn down. That night on his sofa, he’d tried to explain it all to Julian, to shape it into something that made sense, and Julian’s eyes had been first angry, then almost fearful, and then terribly sad... and then they’d been nothing, nothing at all. He’d bitten his lip, hard – Garak had half-expected blood – and then he’d blinked, and his face had been calm and expressionless. There had been no recrimination, no rejection... simply a half-smile, a pat on the shoulder, and a quick good-night.

It would almost have been better if Julian had cut him out of his life, neatly, surgically. It would have been terrible and painful, and then it would have been _done._

Instead, the next morning his phone had woken him with a chirping text: **good morning garak! :)**

He’d stared at it, incredulous.

Later, Julian had dropped by his apartment with coffee and a small lunch from Deep Dish Nine – “Got to get back, I’m just on my break, but I thought you could do with a little more real food!” – and he’d smiled, and Garak had done the same, and was this how it was going to be? Were they really going to pretend that nothing had happened between them? _Does who I am not matter?_

Hatred he could handle. Even indifference would be manageable.

But this… this is erasure, and he doesn’t think he can handle that at all.

He doesn’t know anything about this new Julian, who is coolly pleasant and very charming and as untouchable as a shadow. This new Julian texts him **day going ok?** and **how r u?** and **coffee later?** and when they meet, he talks about nothing as prettily as Garak ever did. This new Julian kisses him on the cheek, and drinks tea with him, and sits down with him once a week at Deep Dish 9, where they both pick at their food and banter endlessly, meaninglessly.

This new Julian is a placeholder, marking time. His Julian – the one who laughed at him, who teased him, who feared nothing, least of all him – has vanished beyond his reach.

_Where are you, Julian? How can I follow you there?_

He doesn’t dare try. To force his presence on someone who doesn’t want it, well…

What is the point of any of this, if it is at all forced?

And so Garak has smiled and nodded and laughed, and Julian has done the same, and it has all begun to feel like a play being put on for an audience of two. It’s unsustainable. How can he suspend his disbelief when he is one of the actors?

But he doesn’t know what else to do.

Now, as he drives, he thinks back to two days ago, when Julian had been sitting on his couch, drinking tea. He’d been telling a story about his day. His voice had stopped mid-sentence.

Garak had turned to look at him from the kitchen, and Julian had been shaking his head, and had put down his tea and looked up at Garak. His face had worn an expression of tired resignation. It had been just as false as the amusement that had been there the moment before.

“This isn’t working, is it, Elim.”

Garak had shaken his head, slowly. What else could he do?

“What should we do about it?” And that voice was tired, not really questioning, just… following the script so that the play could end.

He’d needed to get off-script as quickly as possible. He’d grasped at the first words he thought of.

 _“_ _This_ isn’t working.” And he’d gestured at his apartment, and by implication at the building surrounding them, the city around them, all so familiar.

“What do you mean?”

“How can we start over when nothing else has changed?” He’d said it without thinking, but it had rung strangely true. _We are treading the same paths we_ _’ve walked for a year, hoping they will take us somewhere new._

Julian’s face had been confused, tired, but... was that a slip of the mask? “What are you suggesting?”

He’d had no idea. “Let’s go somewhere.”

That had gotten him a perplexed smile. “Where would we go?”

“Anywhere you like. Tell me where you wish to go and I will take you there.”

Still that smile, pleasantly dismissive. “I have shifts, Elim, I can’t just—”

“I don’t mean for _weeks_ , Julian. Just a weekend. A change of scenery – wouldn’t it be nice?” And he’d dropped it, left it, for Julian to pick up. Or not. As he chose. _Always as he chooses, now..._

Julian’s face had stayed still as he thought about it. Only a few weeks earlier, there would have been no thinking, and Garak had taken that in and settled it in the back of his mind: _more for my penance._

He’d looked up at Garak, finally, a small flash of colour in his eyes. “I suppose so. I have nothing planned. I’ll call off work.” And that smile had changed, somehow; had, for a moment, looked real.

Things between them had been a little like they’d been before, just for that night. They’d googled possibilities on Garak’s computer, and talked idly about places they remembered from when they were smaller, and Julian had leaned up against him on the couch as he described fir trees and mountains, hands tracing shapes in air, and perhaps none of it was real, but it was close enough for now, wasn’t it?

Finally, they’d decided on a place Julian had gone camping with some friends a few years prior. A national park, a few hours north. It had been fun, he’d said. Once Garak had established that this was not the type of camping that required sleeping in any kind of tent, they’d booked a cottage and a car, and it had felt like a little escape, a small something to look forward to, and Julian had hugged him, had whispered, “I needed this…”

And now he’s driving, and Julian is with him. In a way. Because Julian is looking out the window, and Garak’s eyes are fixed on the road, and it’s amazing, really, how two people can be so close together and feel so far apart.


	2. Chapter 2

The cottage itself isn’t much to write home about. It’s a bit ramshackle, unimpressive in the slow drizzle of the late October day, but it’s dry inside and warm once Garak finds the heat, warmer still once he builds a fire. He turns to Julian with a bit of a _ta-da_ flare of his hands, and catches Julian’s surprised expression.

Garak raises his brows.

“Sorry. Just… surprised that you know how to build a fire. But I expect you know all kinds of things, don’t you.” His voice is lightly amused, and just like that, Garak’s little gift is worthless. _Can any surprise I offer him ever be a pleasant one, now?_

They sit together before the fire, Garak on the little couch, Julian on the knotted rag rug, and the warm crackling sound fills the room. The scent of burning wood drifts over them, and Garak sees Julian close his eyes, basking in warmth and sensation.

“Not so bad?”

And Julian starts, slightly, and his eyes flicker to Garak, then away. “Um… sorry. Lost myself for a minute there.” There’s that smile again, friendly and false, and Garak isn’t sure what to do, how to get across the idea that Julian simply being himself while Garak is nearby is all he wants.

There aren’t words for it, and so he smiles back at Julian and gets up, and busies himself with unpacking their bags so that Julian can have space to himself.

As he moves from car to cottage, cottage to car, he breathes deep, inhaling the wet scent of trees and dirt and clean air, moist with rain. This is so unlike Cardassia’s arid heat, or even her quick, torrential downpours that end in minutes, leaving sudden pools on the ground; this is a soft sigh, a hum of moisture that breathes through the air, barely seen as raindrops, felt only as a cool touch on the skin. It’s not what he’s used to. He doesn’t mind.

And there is appeal in the retreat into forest, in being so far from everything he knows, in being alone, unobserved and unjudged…

Perhaps Julian feels the same way. He wonders, and briefly considers asking, and isn’t remotely brave enough.

Soon enough the car is unpacked, and he’s tucked their things away in the single bedroom, and that too is strange: there is no escape from each other, here. Back in the city, Julian can retreat to his apartment, Garak can hide in his shop, and have they been relying on that crutch? _Have I been hiding from him just as he’s hiding from me?_ An uncomfortable thought. He is so naked, these days; he has no overlayer of scent, no charming shield of smiles, no distracting veil of conversation to conceal him. How on earth could he possibly hide?

 _Perhaps I’m hiding in the change._ He is so different now. Some days he hardly recognizes himself. _Perhaps one day I’ll be fortunate enough to wake up as someone else altogether._

He sits on the bed. It creaks beneath him, and he hears Julian shift in the other room. He can imagine him, can almost trace his outline through the wall: back curved and legs to his chest, head tilted as he thinks. _I know you, Julian. I know you so well. At least, I did once..._

He’s not quite certain who the man sitting out there is now.

Well, now Julian says that they are starting over, and so this is, perhaps, a chance to know him all over again.

_Do you think he’ll let you anywhere near him this time around, Elim?_

He blinks at the wall.

* * *

Julian has turned on the radio. “To give us some ambiance,” he says, smiling, and although Garak would prefer peace and quiet, he smiles back instead. It’s the same station they heard in the car, a bit less crackly now, and it plays tinnily in the background as they eat. Their dinner is plain – simple sandwiches, fresh fruit – and this is good. Simple seems to fit.

He’s not hungry. He rarely is, these days. Julian’s making up for his lack of appetite, though: he’s put away two sandwiches already and is starting on an apple with enthusiasm. Garak rests his head on his hands and watches Julian eat, and it’s just as much of a pleasure as it always has been... isn’t it? It’s hard to tell, now. It’s such a strange thing to feel real pleasure. It’s so muted, so soft, a delicate tingling; still, it makes him smile.

Julian looks up from his sandwich and catches him smiling. His brows lift and his face is questioning, _something funny?_

Garak waves a hand, _no, no,_ and Julian nods a little and goes back to his food, and how is it that they can still do this? How can they still speak without speaking? Bits of what they once were keep surprising him, making him blink.

The radio sings on as they finish their meal, as Julian washes up the dishes and Garak dries. The few words they murmur are drowned in its noise, and it’s always easier when they aren’t talking, so much easier to pretend that things are as they were, and so he brushes up against Julian as they stand together at the sink, and he hears Julian’s chuckle, feels Julian lean into him; now he turns and looks up at him, and now there should be a kiss—

_But this isn’t real._

It isn’t real, and that holds him back; he finds himself caught in the moment, and that hesitancy ricochets back and forth between them. Julian’s eyes narrow a little as he feels it too, and he smiles and pulls away, tossing the dishcloth in the sink, patting Garak’s shoulder as he passes.

The evening wears on, the singsong of the radio in the background, and they sit together on the little couch before the fire as it burns itself to ashes. The seat is too small to allow much space between them, and so Julian’s warm body is pressed up against Garak, and Garak can feel him breathing as he reads his book. Garak’s own book isn’t really holding his attention particularly well: the plot is dull, the characters pedestrian, and besides, he keeps noticing Julian’s gaze flickering up, considering him.

He really needs to make some kind of overture. One of them has to. And so the next time he feels Julian’s gaze on him, he turns his head and catches his eyes.

“What is it?”

“Ah…” Julian hadn’t expected to be seen. There’s no mask there yet. He blinks, breathes a small laugh.

The moment hangs there, and this is the time: Julian is open, so briefly. _Where is my way in?_

“Julian…” He smiles, trying to make himself look something like the Garak that Julian once knew. Judging by Julian’s eyes, he’s not very successful. “Can we talk, please?”

Julian frowns very slightly. “What about?”

Well, that is a question like a door thrown wide, but the radio is singing in his ear, distracting and loud, and he can’t quite think past its noise; he reaches over for it, not looking, just groping for the off-switch—

“No, don’t, can you just—” Julian reaches past him, puts a hand on his arm. “Can you leave it playing, please? I like it.”

He opens his mouth, closes it again, presses his lips together. “It’s difficult to talk with it playing.”

“Then let’s not, all right? Let’s not talk. Let’s just be here together, all right?” Julian’s smiling, and it looks like a real smile. There are small crinkles at the corners of his eyes, there are pleasant little wrinkles around his mouth, his eyes are warm, and Garak knows that none of it is real, because he knows Julian—

And because he knows Julian, he smiles back and nods. “Very well. If that’s what you’d prefer.”

“Mmm, I think it is.” Julian is still looking at him, thinking again, and Garak tilts his head, _what?_

That hand is still warm on his arm, resting lightly; now it squeezes gently, and slides up to the nape of his neck, slipping swiftly into his hair, and Julian pulls him close, brings Garak’s lips to his own. The kiss starts softly, grows intense. Julian’s book drops to the floor so that his other arm can slide around Garak’s waist, and Garak’s own book has suddenly become even more dull than it was a few minutes ago. It joins Julian’s book on the floor, spread open, spines together, and meanwhile Julian is pressing him back, climbing up into his lap, and his own arms have come up to hold Julian tightly, to pull their bodies together, and his mouth is open, his eyes are closed—

_But it isn’t real!_

There’s too much between them, swirling in the air; he can’t catch his breath. He pulls away, gasping, and Julian is looking down at him, eyes wide, breathing hard, and if it’s a mask, Garak is hard pressed to tell.

“My dear,” and he keeps his voice calm, “are you certain?”

Julian’s voice, in sharp contrast, is almost desperate: “This is what I want, Elim, this _is_ what I want—” And now he very deliberately wraps his arms around Garak and pulls their mouths back together, and he’s urgent, needy, and Garak is needy too—

It isn’t real. Not even a little. But if this is what Julian wants, Garak will oblige, without question, without judgement. _I owe him no less._

Soon they are in the bedroom, Garak leaning Julian down against the plaid bedspread, nestling his head back against the pillows. There’s almost no light. That’s fine; he doesn’t need it. He knows Julian’s body by heart, after all.

It’s the first time he’s made love to Julian since this all began, and it’s smooth and simple. Their bodies dance through the steps by muscle memory, needing no input from their minds. One thing is strange, though: despite how familiar this is, despite the fact that he knows just where to slide his hands, where to press his mouth, still… it feels a bit like the very first time, all over again. Both of them are tentative as they begin, as half-remembered touches are at first softly explored, toyed with, then suddenly desperately wanted, more important than breath—

He makes love to Julian as if he’s never touched him before, as if he’s gently bringing sensations up in him, one at a time, to be examined and approved or rejected, and Julian opens like a flower for him, lips pink, cheeks flushed, eyes closed, gasping. He is guided by Julian’s body, by the quiver of his thighs, the flex of the muscles of his stomach, by his hands running down Garak’s neck or twisting in his hair, and he lets those signposts take him closer to his destination, closer, closer, but never quite there.

He can’t rush this. He needs to make this good, to make it unforgettable. He needs something to tie Julian to him, a bright memory to illuminate his mind, to pull him back to Garak when Garak can’t shine brightly enough to do it himself. _I am so dim, now, and how can he find me?_

And this is a strange mixture, a complicated offering: this lovemaking is both a thank you and a please, a reassurance and an apology, and it needs to carry so much in its sweet warmth, it needs to wrap around Julian’s bones and warm him from inside, because nothing, nothing else seems to pass that mask. No less important, though, it needs to warm Garak, because it’s so good to feel needed, to have Julian wanting him, begging him, _please, Elim, please_ —

And so Garak draws this out, prolongs it, lets Julian climb up and fall back down as he pulls him to the brink again and again, listening for how his soft sounds rise in urgency, feeling the tension in his limbs, needing his need, not wanting to let him go, but finally Julian’s eyes open and look at him with no thought in them, just a demand, and Garak must give in.

Julian’s release twists him, unmakes him, leaves him boneless and gasping, and Garak smiles down at him in the dark of their room, watching his lips tremble and his eyelids flutter—

And when those eyes open and fix on him again, Julian’s mouth stretches into a smile, and he breathes Garak’s name.

Oh, it’s good, it’s so good, it’s just as it was...

Julian’s eyelids droop, and it’s like a direct line to his back-brain, a spark of electricity that makes him stiffen. A thick trickle of lust runs through him, the first honest desire he’s felt in twenty-eight days, _mmm_ , and he smiles; lazily he angles his neck, opening himself, and Julian smiles back and bares his teeth and _bites—_

And instead of the hot rush of near-painful pleasure he expects, instead of the sharp tingle that runs down his spine and jolts him at his core, it just _hurts,_ and he cries out, and jerks away, _what? What?_

Julian is frozen, looking at him, and Garak is frozen, looking back.

 _I am not who I was._ _How fortunate I am, after all._

“So I can’t even do _this_ for you now.” There’s a sadness in Julian’s voice, but there is anger, too; they coil together, bitterly enervating.

“I’m sorry, I…” He isn’t sure what to say. His neck hurts.

“No, no, it’s all right, it makes _sense,_ _”_ and Julian pushes him up and over; Garak falls on his side on the bed, and Julian turns away, legs to his chest. All the easy, lazy release that Garak has worked so hard to pull out has vanished: here is Julian wound tight as a clock-spring, and there is no way in.

“You didn’t do anything wrong—”

“I _know_ that.” There’s irritation in Julian’s voice. “You’re just hyper-sensitive now. There’s no verkecin in your system to dull your senses. Everything will seem too strong for a while – scent, sound, touch…” He’s talking as much to himself as he is to Garak, and Garak listens, trying to learn.

There’s a pause, a slow breath, and Julian sighs. “I’m sorry.” Now his voice is tired, emotions washed from it, and what’s left is thin and translucent. “I didn’t mean…” Another pause. “I just very much wanted to do something for you.”

It’s almost funny. “You wanted to do something for me.”

Julian hears the undercurrent in his voice and turns over, looking at him. “You’re sadder these days. I know why, physiologically, I know what’s going on, but I just…” He presses his lips together, half-smiles, and if there is nothing else good here, at least that smile is real. “I keep thinking I can make it better. I suppose I should know that I can’t.”

That cuts to the core, and Garak sighs and pulls Julian close, feeling the tension in his body. “You make it better, my dear. You do. Every day, you do.”

A small laugh. “Well, that’s good, then.” But the tension is still there, tightening his muscles, and Garak isn’t sure what to do about it.

He pulls back, looks into Julian’s eyes, trying to see the truth of it. Julian looks back at him, brows raised, a small smile on his face. His expression is a wall again, and there are no cracks in it through which Garak can peer to see what might be on the other side.

He sighs and presses a kiss to Julian’s forehead, and Julian lets him. They lie there, together in the dark; outside the rain is still falling, heavier now. Garak can hear it pattering against the glass, rattling on the roof. It’s a noisy storm, boisterous, talking to itself over the lake in rumbling booms, and it surrounds them, drowning out whatever noises they might make.

_We are as isolated here as we will ever be._

Julian’s face is resting against Garak’s shoulder, and Garak can feel warm breath sighing softly over his skin. They haven’t been close like this in a month, and Garak has missed it, but he hadn’t realized exactly how much. This has become so central to him, to have Julian here with him like this—

_I am no longer enough, by myself, for myself. I need him…_

That’s a weakness he can’t afford, something that could be used against him, and yet he really doesn’t care. _If they come for me, well, I’ll deal with it. For now, I have him—_

But that is selfish, and only half of the equation.

_I have him. What does he have?_

“Julian…” He speaks softly, and Julian stirs against him, hips moving slightly.

“Hmm?” Julian’s voice sounds sleepy, and Garak knows better.

“Talk to me.”

A pause. “Talk to you? About what?”

“About anything. About whatever you like.”

A sigh. “Can’t we just enjoy this?”

“I can’t enjoy it if you’re not happy.”

“I _am_ happy.” Now there’s irritation in his voice, once again, and a clear desire for Garak to _leave it alone,_ and perhaps that would be the wiser course.

_Recent events have proven me very unwise…_

“That isn’t true, my dear.”

“Really.” Now Julian raises his head, looks him in the eye. “You know that, do you?”

“I know you.”

“Ha!” Anger in that laugh, breathed out without thought, and Julian rolls away; all Garak can make out in the darkness is the vague shape of the back of his head.

Garak waits quietly, and the rain hisses around them, _shhhh…_

“All right,” and Julian’s voice is low again. “All right, if you’re so damned clever, perhaps you can answer a question for me, Garak.”

He’s _Garak_ now, and isn’t it funny how he misses _Elim_ when he’d once felt so uncertain about whether he could ever own that name again?

“I’ll try.”

“That’s all I could ever ask. Answer this one for me: do you think people are born innately good or bad? Or do we make ourselves that way?”

That isn’t what he’d expected. “Pardon me?”

“You wanted to talk, so let’s talk. Answer me: innate or not?”

He sighs. This happens to be an issue he’s thought about quite a bit. More so after meeting Julian, who’s made him wonder about so many things. “I don’t believe in good or bad.”

“Don’t dodge the question.”

“I’m not dodging the question. Life is lived in shades of grey. Thinking of someone as ‘good’ or ‘bad’ makes it too simple, too easy to dismiss what they might have to say.”

A frustrated sigh from Julian’s side of the bed. “How about ‘right’ and ‘wrong’?”

“That depends on the context, my dear…” And Julian blows out air, and Garak backpedals a little. “I believe in them as guideposts, concepts that show us ways to be in a society. Choose this action, be seen this way; choose that action, be seen another way. That’s all they are.”

“So there is no inherent moral goodness in an act, for you. It’s all about how it makes you look to someone else.” There’s a slight distance in Julian’s voice, and Garak frowns.

“Any act can be seen as good or bad, depending on who is looking at it…” He turns over, facing away from Julian; they’re back to back in the small bed, the patchwork plaid of the quilt loose over them.

“How about lying? Is lying bad?”

He’d wondered if they’d come to this again. “That depends.”

“Is lying to one’s lover bad, Garak?” Julian’s tone is steady, the words measured, laid out one by one.

“Sometimes lies must be told to protect someone.” He’s framed it out in his mind, already; now he has to try to explain. “Sometimes one should not ask another to shoulder a burden that is not theirs. I didn’t want you to—”

“Me? What does this have to do with me? We’re talking abstracts here.”

_Ah. I see._

“My apologies.” He pauses for a moment, reframing. “Look at it this way. We build walls to protect ourselves from the weather, don’t we?”

Silence and rainfall; on he goes, speaking to the night. “But by doing this, aren’t we lying to ourselves about how things really are? We look out through the windows and think, _ah, raining again,_ and we go on with what we’re doing as if the rain isn’t _real._ But there’s nothing wrong with that, is there. One would have to be a stickler indeed to object to the simple fiction of a wall.”

Nothing from Julian except the warm heat radiating from his back. Garak sighs. “Sometimes a lie can be a wall. Sometimes it protects us from something we don’t need to experience for ourselves.”

“Some walls need to come down.”

He nods to himself. “Some do, yes. Sometimes, the rain comes through whether we like it or not. At that point, the wall is no longer serving its purpose. Leaving it there would be foolish.”

“What about building a wall once the rain’s already come in?”

He blinks, feels Julian shift in the bed. “That does seem futile.”

“A silly thing to do, right?”

“Very silly.” Julian is working up to something, and it’s not going to be something Garak is going to enjoy.

“You tried to end this, Garak. You tried to make me leave.” A soft whisper, flatly stated, and Garak hisses between his teeth. They haven’t touched on this since his impassioned tumble of words, when Julian had come back after Garak had quietly put all hope away; he’d been so insane with need, so frantic to explain how much of a blessing this was that he’d dropped all of his walls, had let the wind and rain inside him whirl out, chilling everything between them—

_Is this my second chance?_

Julian had closed himself off after that night, and Garak, as always, had opted for the safer path, hadn’t poked, hadn’t prodded. _The reason I am still alive today is that I know when to walk away…_

 _Elim Garak, for once in your life, be_ brave!

“I did.”

“Explain.” One word, harsh and hurting—

“I don’t deserve you.”

 _“What?”_ Julian hasn’t raised his voice, but incredulity thrums through his whisper, and Garak is glad that they can’t see each other’s faces; _what would he see in me?_

“Someone like you isn’t for someone like me.” Such a ridiculous statement, so trite, and yet he resonates with the truth of it, feels purer with the purging of it from within him.

Julian’s breathing is raw, catching in his throat, and Garak feels him shifting, feels the blanket moving across his body; Julian must be twisting it between his hands.

“I don’t think – I – someone like you?”

He hasn’t said it right. _Try again._ “Someone who has done what I’ve done. Who’s made the choices I’ve made.”

“Hold on,” and Julian’s tone is tight, “I thought you said there were no such things as good or bad choices.”

“There aren’t, but—”

“I thought everything you did was for Cardassia.”

“It _was—”_

“Isn’t that the highest calling a Cardassian can have? To act for Cardassia?”

“That’s one way of—”

“Then something doesn’t make sense, Garak. Your thinking is muddy.” Julian’s words are clipped, and Garak feels him draw his legs up to himself, curling away from Garak, and this is beyond frustrating. Between fatigue and, yes, muddy synapses, he can’t think clearly enough for this. _Has this thick-headedness stolen everything I was?_ He can’t let it steal this, too.

He breathes for a moment, tries again. “I have hurt people.”

“So you’ve said.”

“I have killed people.”

“You’ve said that, too,” and Julian curls up tighter, pulling away from the murderer in his bed.

“Do you really want to know someone like me?” A bare honesty, laying him open for the slice of the surgeon’s steel—

“I know Miles.”

That’s… unexpected.

Julian catches his hesitation. “You said it yourself. Miles was a soldier. He doesn’t like to talk about it, but I know…” A pause, and a sigh. “I’ve done some reading on the Setlik massacre, and… I don’t think anyone came away from that one with clean hands.”

He has to think about that for a moment. “You may be right.”

“The Cardassians killed kids, you know. They killed everybody.”

“Yes.” All the fault of poor intel; sloppy work had cost so many lives, both Cardassian and Federation… He’d always taken it as a bit of a cautionary tale.

“And then Miles had to go in there, and…” He hears Julian’s head moving against his pillow, the soft sound of his mouth closing, opening again. “I think he saw some things… I think he _did_ some things that he… wishes he hadn’t.”

An understatement, no doubt. “Has he told you much about it?”

“Almost nothing.”

_Ah._

“But it doesn’t matter what he did, Garak, because I know him; he’s a good man,” and Julian’s voice is suddenly impassioned, still soft, but strong. “He cares about his family and his friends, and he’s… he’s _trying._ And you may not believe in good and bad, but I do, and Miles is good – because he _makes_ himself good, he makes the choices that—”

A pause; a hesitant breath. “And I… I think you are, too. You did things that you regret. Some of them I… can’t imagine. But you don’t do them now, and you might make mistakes, but...  you’re trying, right?”

Garak is glad, again, for the darkness.

“And to hear you say that you don’t _deserve_ me – God, that makes me _furious.”_ Still that passion, now thick with anger, and how can Garak answer him? This anger is rooted somewhere he doesn’t quite understand.

He has to try to learn, has to try to dig out those roots, to twist out the weed before it chokes the garden. “I didn’t mean to upset you—”

“Well, that’s a first,” and that has put him rather neatly in his place, hasn’t it.

But Julian isn’t done talking. “You always seem to delight in tipping me over on my ear, in seeing just how much I can handle, you _never_ go easy on me, and then it turns out you’ve been lying to me all along – and now you’re telling me it was to _protect_ me? Well, I didn’t ask for that, I don’t want it, and if you _ever_ try to do it again, this is _done,_ are we _clear?”_ All in a whisper, in a rush, pouring from him, and Garak has a feeling Julian is purging something, too. _Good, my love, let it out, let it all out, I can take it—_

“Yes, I—”

Julian doesn’t seem to have heard him. “Don’t deserve me, how _ridiculous,_ you don’t even _know_ me—” And there’s a sudden thickness in his voice, a harshness that Garak has only heard before a month ago, had never wanted to hear again, _oh, please, don’t—_

_Can’t you take it after all, Elim?_

He turns over again, looks at Julian’s back, listens to the sound of him breathing. It’s quiet and regular, too regular; Julian is suppressing tears, and Garak does his very best not to hear it, tries to speak past it.

“If there is such a thing as a good person, Julian, then you are a good person.”

“Do tell.” Bitterness coating his voice, slick and stinging—

“You care. You care more than anyone I’ve ever met. You open yourself to strangers, and you take their pain away. I couldn’t…” Garak finds himself shaking his head, his hair whispering against his pillow. “I couldn’t do that.”

“Ah, yes, Julian Bashir, noble and kind and good, is that right?” Now there’s a hint of sour laughter in his voice; it’s self-mocking, and Garak’s mouth twists.

“I would say so, yes.”

“Does a good person tell lies?” They’re back to this again, and Garak isn’t sure why.

“As I said, it depends on the context…”

“Right, because some lies are needed to protect other people. But what about lies to protect _yourself?”_ There’s a sort of desperation in his voice, now, and what is this?

“It depends on the lie, I suppose. If what you’re trying to achieve is a greater goal than would be served by telling the truth, then it would make sense to lie…”

“And... if it’s not...?” Julian’s voice trails off to nothing.

This is semantics, and Julian is circling around his point. Garak would rather arrow to it.

“My dear…” He is almost hesitant, making his approach under cover of darkness. “Do you think you are a bad person?”

Silence between them, and slow breaths.

“I don’t know what I am, Elim…” He’s _Elim_ again, and now Julian’s voice is simply weary. “Maybe… do you know, I think I’m really just very overtired… Perhaps we could just get some sleep?”

The rain is pouring outside, pounding down; Garak stretches out a hand, rests it gently on Julian’s shoulder, and Julian sighs and briefly rubs his cheek against it. It feels like a blessing, a benediction, given without thought or hesitation, and within him his heart would leap if it wasn’t so very tired.

_He thinks I’m a good person. He thinks I am worth saving._

Spelled out like that, it sounds ridiculous. From Julian’s mouth, it’s simple truth.

 _I don’t deserve this. I don’t._ But now he has to live as though he does, because if Julian Bashir thinks he’s worth it, well, to fail him in this – in anything – would truly be a sin.

And that means he’s going to have to hurt him, and he closes his eyes at the thought.

Perhaps, for tonight, he can leave it…?

_For just one more night, can I please have this?_

And he’s granted a surfeit of grace tonight, because with his hand on Julian’s shoulder, with the rain falling around them, reminding him of the truth of things, he is able to fall asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

When he awakens, Julian is lying on the next pillow over, looking at him.

“Good morning, Elim.” He smiles, looks out the window. “It’s going to be a beautiful day.” And he stretches out an arm, runs a hand over Garak’s face from temple to chin, then tugs at his shoulder, pulling him in for a tight embrace. Long arms slip around him, one under his neck, one over his shoulder; Julian sighs and nestles in, and Garak can’t see his face this way, not at all.

_Very well, then._

They drift, they drowse in the light from the window that pours in and over them. The sunlight that illuminates the room is that peculiar late-fall shade of straw, and it fades the coverlet, it washes the colour from their faces. It’s not a warm sun, not really, and Julian’s phone confirms this with its prediction of clear skies and cool weather. Really, there’s no reason to rise early, not when the bed is warm, not when Julian is curled against him, murmuring to him, not when the lie is so seductive, so Garak stays there with him, sharing warmth, with nowhere to go and no one to be. Julian presses his nose into Garak’s hair and breathes deep, and Garak bows his head and smiles, and as long as they aren’t really talking, it’s easy.

It can’t last forever, though. Bladders are intractable things, and eventually Julian hops from the bed and makes his way to the bathroom with many complaints about the chill of the wooden floor. Garak sighs to himself, savours the bed for one last moment, and then levers himself up from under the covers, joints aching in a way they never used to, _ah, ah—_

Perhaps his body will never let him forget. It really seems a bit much, sometimes; he’s quite capable of doing penance on his own. Must aching knees be inflicted on him as well?

The morning ends up being rather noisy, however, which cuts down on his time for self-pity, and this is another unexpected benefit in his retreat from the standard routine. It’s hard to maintain a good bout of depression when one’s partner is singing along with the radio while preparing a worryingly greasy breakfast. Even escape outside to the little porch brings only a slight respite; Julian simply cracks a window and bangs on a pan to announce that breakfast is served.

Eggs. Bacon. Toast with butter. He eats it. Mercies, he _devours_ it, all that he can get, and when exactly was it that food started to taste good again? Was it this week? He hadn’t really noticed it, back in the city... Well, _when_ doesn’t matter, does it, because right now after three eggs, four slices of toast, and an unmentionable amount of bacon, he’s sitting at the table feeling slightly stupefied and it is _wonderful._ Between lazy blinks, he catches Julian grinning at him, honestly grinning.

“Good?”

“Mmm.” _In many ways._

“It’s good to see you eating.”

“It’s good to eat.”

He sits back, stretches his feet out under the table, and Julian eyes him, pushes his chair back and gets up. He’s busy with various things for a few minutes, which Garak spends being incredibly aware of his full belly; when he returns, he bears two steaming cups of coffee and a variety of...

“Are those trail maps?”

Julian’s smile is wide.

And now the hunt for diversion begins in earnest. It involves rather a lot of negotiation, which he’s not certain is really warranted. Can one not simply go for a hike? Must there be quite so much consideration of which way to go and what to see? Garak is rather of the opinion that once one has seen one tree, one has very probably seen them all. It appears that Julian, on the other hand, would very much like to see every single tree, and also this lookout, and this trail, too, looks promising, and the lazy morning soon seems perilously close to being consumed by debate.

Eventually they manage an agreement: this trail, this branch off, this lookout, then back here. It will take a few hours, it will be a challenging walk but not exhausting, and Garak surprises himself by suggesting that they bring a picnic. This meets with Julian’s approval, which is not at all surprising, and shortly thereafter, Garak is lacing up hiking boots. They feel strange on his feet, but the socks within them are thick and warm, and as for the rest of his clothing… well, khaki and plaid are not his favourite things, but they’d been something of a theme at the camping store. The jacket’s warm, if a bit puffy, and in this northern forest, inner warmth beats outer glamour all hollow. Even Julian’s suppressed mirth at his bulky profile doesn’t dampen his spirits; he’s well prepared for a walk in the woods, with gloved hands and even a rather jaunty little toque, and if Julian wants to laugh, well, let him.

Julian, for his part, has stuck with his tried-and-true formula of jeans and a t-shirt, with a sweatshirt layered on top, and a jacket atop all that. It’s not the one Garak made him, which is fine; that coat would hardly fit this setting. It’s really not much of anything; too light for the weather, probably not even waterproof… Ah, well, the day is sunny and fine, if a bit cool, and he has the feeling that nitpicking at Julian about what he’s chosen to wear would not be received at all well. _Leave it._ Besides, he’s topped the entire ensemble with the scarf Garak gave him. It looks ridiculous. The colours don’t match at all. It’s perfect.

Once they hit the trail Julian leads the way, map in hand, and Garak relaxes and lets him. Julian sets a rather brisk pace, and Garak finds himself lengthening his stride to keep up. It feels unexpectedly good to test his muscles again; he’s been rather sedentary these last few weeks. Well... months, truly. But the last few weeks have not helped matters at all.

The net result of the brisk pace, however, is that he finds himself a bit breathless, and so there isn’t much conversation as they walk. His mind still works, though, collecting data as always. Without words to process, it clings instead to images, and he finds himself recording their whereabouts by notches in trees, by angled branches, by a rotting stump here and a deadfall there—

Apparently old habits died hard. _I don’t think I could get lost here if I wanted to._

Not that it’s an issue. Julian is doing fine with the map, actually. The trail is well marked. He’s relaxed, comfortable, and isn’t that fascinating: here is pleasure again, gently sighing through him. It’s warm within his skin, and he smiles, and walks, and time passes.

The leaves on the ground are still wet from the previous night’s rain, and the trail is a bit muddy; they slip and slide on some of the little hills, and at one point Garak braces himself and tugs Julian up a mildly treacherous slope, receiving a smile for his pains. Most of the time, though, he walks behind Julian, watching the world, letting the soft reds and yellows and oranges of a forest in late fall wash over him.

Cardassia is always either green or sand. Cardassia doesn’t have fall or winter. All these shades, all these in-betweens… they’re beautiful to look at, and he does his best to take them in as well as he can. He finds himself sighing quietly at the yellows of a tall tree, at how its leaves are spinning in the air like the tops of children playing vet’a’pik, and that silly little thought makes him smile to himself. _Now that is a clear sign of my recovery: bad poetry._ Next, perhaps, will come the desire for chocolate.

Up ahead of him, Julian is pausing, consulting his map. The trail branches here, and Garak peers over his shoulder.

A long finger traces their path. “This way, right?”

“That looks right to me.”

And it is: shortly they are walking out of the forest into a clear place, where the vegetation is short and scrubby, where, suddenly, they find themselves high above the rest of the world. They’ve reached the lookout point, protruding from the side of the escarpment they’ve been climbing all morning, and for their pains they are rewarded with a view beyond Garak’s expectations. Colours are splashed and dashed liberally across the landscape; far below them, autumn-draped trees are dancing in the cool breeze, their limbs swaying, and the overall effect is something like looking at an ocean that reflects back a thousand suns, its waves moving in slow, regular patterns. To the east of them, the lake sparkles in the pale autumn light, glistening as if already coated with ice. The air is clean and clear.

Garak sighs. Julian smiles.

“Worth it?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Let’s eat.”

With absolutely no ceremony, lunch is unpacked and set out on bare rock, close to the edge of the drop-off. Julian casts a quick look at Garak as he does so, almost daring; Garak smiles back, his face calm. _If you can handle it, I can handle it…_

And shortly thereafter they’re perched perilously near the edge of the cliff, munching on crackers and bits of cheese as if this were a completely rational thing to do. Julian, the idiot, is dangling his actual _feet_ over the edge, and Garak is damning himself for a fool and a show-off and trying to think of a reasonable way to creep back a metre or two without looking completely ridiculous—

_To hell with how it looks!_

He shoves back a bit, feeling much better once he gets far enough away that he can’t look down and see imminent death below him. Julian watches him, surprise on his face.

“Playing it safe today, Elim?”

He tilts his head, smiles as if there’s nothing to defend. “I think so. The view is just as lovely from back here.” Daringly, he pats the ground next to him. “You could join me, if you like.”

Julian shakes his head, dismissive. “No, thanks; I rather like living a bit dangerously.” He reaches for a bunch of grapes, tugs one free of the cluster, tosses it in his mouth—

No, actually, he tosses it over the edge of the cliff, and judging by the sudden widening of his eyes it does some rather cataclysmic things on its way down. He blinks after it, then turns to meet Garak’s gaze with a quite remarkable expression. Two seconds later he’s skittering away from the edge in a sort of awkward backwards crabwalk, and Garak finds himself chuckling, low in his chest.

It feels good. It feels _marvellous._

It’s not safe. It’s the wrong thing to do, completely, and yet he needs to do it: he reaches out as Julian nears him, embraces him from behind and tugs him close as Julian gasps, and it feels so good, _so_ good to rest his head on Julian’s shoulder, to tighten his arms around him; _oh,_ it’s good, and he lets out a near-growl of pure delight that doesn’t sound anything like him.

He closes his eyes, burrows roughly into Julian’s shoulder, and it’s quite funny to feel Julian’s slight startle, his intake of breath. “Elim… are you all right?”

Oh, poor thing, he’s so shocked. Well, he can’t fault him for his response; that certainly wasn’t typical Garak, if there’s any such thing these days, and so he smiles, and says into Julian’s coat, “I’m very well, thank you,” and then impulsively lifts his head and kisses Julian’s cheek once before he lets him go.

Julian’s smile as he turns to face him is pleased and surprised, but there’s still something held back; he’s not quite sure. “Are you… feeling better?”

And where that question, yesterday, would have made him feel weak and small, would have made him regret his spontaneous act, today it carries none of that weight. Perhaps it’s being freed from his regular routine, small and shell-like around him. Perhaps it’s the way Julian said his name last night, full of need. Perhaps it’s the conversation afterwards, and being told that there is more to him than what he used to be, that in Julian’s eyes, he is _good_ —

“Yes. Yes, I am.” He smiles at Julian, trying to convey a thank you, wanting him to share in Garak’s own pleasure.

“Well, that’s… that’s good, then,” and Julian’s smile is briefly wide and honest, but slips away too quickly. He turns his head, looks down at his food on the rock beside him, and Garak is brought back to himself.

_So he’s made you feel good, has he, Elim? How nice for you. And how have you made him feel?_

“I had no right, Julian.” The words spill from his lips, unplanned. “I had no right, and I am sorry.”

Julian’s glance at him is slightly confused; he’s got a mouthful of apple and he can’t say much, but his eyebrows are eloquent.

Well, once started, best finished. “To say the things I said to you. I cannot express my regret...” He’s, unusually, at a loss for words.

It seems to be all right, though, because Julian nods as he swallows. “It’s fine. You weren’t thinking straight.” He smiles a little, takes another decisive bite.

“That doesn’t excuse my behaviour.”

Julian blinks, chewing slowly, as his smile fades. He takes his time finishing this bite, and he looks at Garak again. “You’re right. But I’ve already forgiven you for that, haven’t I?”

 _Ouch._ But also, this is perhaps a good thing: this is Julian talking openly about what Garak has said to him, without cover of darkness. At this moment, his mask is down. He’s vulnerable.

_This is the part where you hurt him._

“Tell me more about what you were saying last night.”

“Not sure what you mean,” and immediately the shields go up as Julian looks out over the strange, leafy sea.

“You were talking about bad and good.”

A chuckle, and Julian smiles. “I think I was just tired. I was a bit over-wrought, to be honest.” He turns that smile to Elim, and it’s as bright as the sun shining on them now, as cool as the wind soughing over them. “I’d really just rather leave it, all right?”

“No, Julian.” He’s committed now, locking in, and Julian’s smile is slipping.

“What do you mean, _no?”_

“I mean that I need you to explain what you meant.”

A small laugh. The smile is definitely hanging by a thread. “I’m not sure you get to make that kind of demand of me.”

Interesting. There _is_ something he is protecting. Old instincts prickle within him. “So you did mean something.”

“I was just overthinking, is all – and I don’t want to talk about it.” His face is set, and he looks away.

“Last night, you said that I don’t know you.”

“You _don’t.”_

“I think I do.”

“You think a lot of things that aren’t necessarily so, Elim.” Julian’s tone is dismissive. He’s only half-joking.

“That may well be true, but I think I have an idea of what it is you don’t want to talk about. No, don’t—” He raises a hand to stop Julian’s irritated retort. “Let me finish. If I’m wrong, tell me afterwards.”

Julian’s eyes flicker to him, back to the view; a curt nod.

“You feel that you are telling some kind of lie. You feel that this makes you a lesser person, because the lie is not being told in service of a greater goal. You feel that if I truly understood this, or if others became aware of it, they would think less of you. Am I anywhere near the truth?”

Julian is blinking, but his expression doesn’t change. “Do you think you’d recognize it if you saw it?”

That both stings and is justified, and he ignores it; he’s concentrating. “You’re not laughing, nor are you shaking your head. I am correct.”

“What you are is intrusive, Garak, and I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“So you’ve said. But you need to.”

“Don’t tell me what I need!”

“It seems someone must; you are not doing a very good job of determining it on your own.” _Oh, Elim, you hypocrite,_ but there’s no time for that; he’s busy—

“Perhaps I just don’t want you prying into my affairs! Have you considered that? Perhaps I just don’t trust you!” Ah, and there’s the anger, there’s the crack in the mask. Good, _good,_ this is what he needs, and now he must widen it.

“You have every right not to trust me. But I care for you very deeply, my dear—”

“Funny way of showing it—”

“—and so I find it very difficult to sit here and pretend that all is well when I can clearly see in your face, in your manner, in your words that something is very, very wrong, and you are trying to make it disappear by pretending it’s not there at all.”

Julian’s incredulous, agitated, his emotions clear as day. “God, you can read me like a bloody book, can’t you!”

“I may be the only one who can.”

A pause, and Julian’s fists clench. “That’s perfect, isn’t it. That’s just fucking perfect. The only one who knows there’s anything wrong is the one who...”

“The one who caused it?”

Julian looks over at him, eyes haunted. “That’s not what I meant...”

“But it’s close. Go on. Say what you need to say.”

“I don’t want to hurt you—”

Tsk, that’s tiresome. He bats it aside. “I would think a medical student would know very well that sometimes one must hurt in order to heal.”

Julian’s head comes up. His eyes are sharp and angry. _Good._ Garak’s hit something true. Now it’s just a question of waiting for what will come now.

He doesn’t have to wait long. Julian puts his hands to his face for a moment, rubs his eyes, looks away over the expanse of trees below them. “Look, I’m just… not what you think, all right? I’m not a good person. I’m lying to everyone.”

“What are you lying about?” He already knows, but Julian needs to say it.

“Everything. _This.”_ The sweep of his hand indicates the two of them, the forest around them, but that’s not at all what he means. “Everyone asks me how you are and I say _fine._ They ask me how _I_ am and I say _fine,_ they ask how my weekend went and I say oh, it was good, did you see Garak, yes, I did, did you go somewhere fun, no, we just stayed in and I—” He stops himself, presses his lips together, narrows his eyes.

“I haven’t heard any lies yet.”

That gets him a dark look from those narrowed eyes. “You know damned well those are lies. You know all about lies.”

Garak knows all about lashing out, too. He lets Julian’s words roll off. “I am something of an expert.”

“I’m not, though. I’m not a _liar.”_

Garak blinks at him. “Aren’t you?”

“Oh, no, don’t start, don’t play _games_ with me!” He’s angrier now; he hits the ground next to him once, twice, with the flat of an open hand. “I know what you’re going to say, and look, me being what people expect me to be is _polite,_ it’s not a lie – that’s how people _work._ I’m used to that. It’s never bothered me before and it doesn’t bother me now, so don’t waste time twisting my life to suit your examples!”

Well, that’s summed him up nicely, hasn’t it. _How does it feel to be completely transparent to someone, Elim?_

 _Like it’s about time, actually._ He tilts his head, smiles.

“You are worried, though, that you are becoming more like me. A liar, like me.”

Julian’s gaze flashes to him, away. _That was another hit._

“Did we not discuss, last night, how sometimes a lie can be a form of protection?” He keeps his tone soft, reassuring. “What good could possibly come from telling everyone you know about my... difficulties? The knowledge would be of no use to them. Instead, you are choosing to protect my privacy. That isn’t a lie, my dear, not really. That is a selfless act.”

But as he speaks, Julian’s shoulders hunch further and further in, and he pulls his legs up and wraps his arms around them. That’s not right, not at all. Julian should be feeling soothed. He should feel calm, he should feel safe, and why isn’t this working? _Can I be so far off the mark?_

“That’s me. Selfless.” Julian’s voice is quiet, twisting in his throat, and yes, Garak has this completely wrong.

He doesn’t speak. Instead, he studies Julian, examining how his neck is bent, how his head hangs low, how his hands grip his calves. _Ashamed. He’s ashamed. Why is—_

Oh, and it hits him. He almost wants to laugh at himself. _Of course. It’s so simple._

“My dear...” How to say it? He has to choose his words so carefully. “You were very kind to me, that night. You forgave me.”

Julian’s voice is taut. “And?”

He meets Julian’s eyes with his own unblinking stare. “And I find myself wondering what you might have said to me if you hadn’t done so.”

Julian can’t face that stare. He looks down. “Doesn’t matter.” It’s almost a mumble. “Irrelevant now.”

“Dear me.” He tuts a little, lets a hint of pride seep into his voice. “You truly _are_ a liar.”

And that’s it: he’s said something frightening enough to smash the mask to smithereens, and Julian looks at him, really looks at him, with fury in his eyes.

“God, do you have to pry? Can’t you just... you know what, fine, I am so fucking _angry_ at you! I – I trusted you so completely! God, I – all the waiting and faffing about that I did, it wasn’t for _fun_ , you know! I was waiting to be sure, I needed to be sure, and then _this—”_

He’s almost incoherent with the force of the words spilling from him, and Garak braces himself against them, tries not to let them take his breath away, because Julian needs him to hear this and to remember every word.

“And I told everyone, _everyone_ that no, you’ve got him all wrong, Garak is a nice man, he’s kind, he’s pleasant, he’s funny – do you realize, everyone I know said I was an idiot for getting involved with you? Every single person! Down to Rij, who’ll date just about anybody – even Jadzia took a while to warm up to the idea – and Miles, God, don’t even let me get started on Miles, and they were all _right!”_

He’s gasping now, fists clenched, and Garak’s not even sure that Julian knows he’s there anymore: he’s talking more to himself. “Everyone I know, all of my friends – and I told them it was fine, I’d be fine, and now look at me, look at this mess, and what do I say? _Nothing,_ that’s what I say, because I’m a coward and I don’t want anyone to know that Julian Bashir, brilliant young fucking med student, was one hundred percent _wrong.”_

Now he looks at Garak, and it’s the strangest look: even though his voice is furious, even though his hands are fisted, his eyes are pleading. “I am a liar, Garak. I’m lying to protect _myself._ It’s not about you. Maybe I told myself it was, once, but it’s not about you, it’s about _me_ and how, surprise, surprise, Jules has fucked it all up _again—”_

The phrase is bitten off mid-sentence, swallowed in a painful piece. He sees Julian choking on it, and he can’t help it, he has to ask.

“Jules...?”

 _“_ _No.”_ Now nothing but the plea in his face, and his voice is lower, suddenly near-exhausted. “No, _no,_ don’t you know enough about me already? God, do you have to know _everything_ about my life? Leave it alone, can’t you? Just... just let it be, all right?”

Garak could have it out of him. He could have this secret. _It might help him – it would be better if he told me—_

And once he pulls this last thing out of Julian – for his own good, of course – where will they be?

His own voice echoes in his ears. _Aren’t you supposed to respect the wishes of your patients, Doctor? Even if you don’t agree?_

 _Ah, but not everyone knows what’s best for them..._ And that’s demonstrably true in his case, isn’t it, and so he shuts his mouth. He looks over at Julian, who’s flushed and furious, a ball of emotion, and Garak knows the worst thing he could do would be to gently place a hand on his shoulder, to offer any kind of physical comfort at all.

He has to clench his hands to stop himself.

_My goodness, Elim. You certainly do know how to keep your life interesting._

“Julian.”

No answer. Julian’s somewhere else right now, and his eyes are bright as he fights for control.

“Look at me.”

He does. His pupils are wide. _“What?”_

Garak keeps his voice calm, soft. “Would you consider talking about this with someone? Someone other than myself?”

Incredulity strains Julian’s features. “Have you listened to a single thing I’ve said? I _can’t—”_

“You must. You can’t talk to me about this, not the way you need to.”

Anger again, now. “That’s a bit of a changed tune, isn’t it?”

“Please, Julian, _listen.”_

Julian breathes in, puffs it out, raises his brows.

“The loveliest thing about you is your honesty. Do you know that?” He smiles at Julian, doesn’t stop to let him speak. “You don’t hide anything about yourself, not really, not the things that count. That draws people to you. It is a rare quality.” Now he pauses for a moment, assessing, and Julian is listening; angry, but listening. “I would hate to see you lose who you are in some kind of attempt to protect who you think you should be.”

That pulls a short laugh from Julian. It’s a harsh, unpleasant sound. “Is that what I’m doing?”

“I can’t be certain. I can only suppose.”

Now Julian presses his lips together, looks down. “And who do I tell, hmm? Who gets to hear our sordid little tale?”

He’s thought about this. He’s not particularly fond of his answer, but it’s the only one that makes sense. “I suggest Mr. O’Brien.”

That yanks Julian’s attention back to him, and for a moment all anger is put aside. “Sorry, what? _Miles?”_

Garak nods.

“Why on earth would you want me to talk to Miles about this?”

 _Because he was a soldier. Because he’s seen things you could never imagine._ “Because he is your best friend. Because he understands you, and you trust him.” _And because I am quite certain that he can keep a secret._

“Oh, no, no—” Julian’s shaking his head, rejecting the notion. “I could never talk to Miles about – about _anything_ like this, this would be too strange for him—”

“Mr. O’Brien is a good man.” _Despite experiences I hope you will never understand_. “Isn’t that what you said last night?”

“Well, yes, I mean... yes, he is.” Julian’s voice is slower now; he’s thinking about it.

“And you trust him.”

A blink. Pursed lips. “I do.”

Now he leans in again, lowers his voice, makes this an intimate secret: “Tell me, do you trust him with your life?”

Julian’s dark eyes flicker up to his, and there’s a twist in his voice. “Are you serious?”

He raises his brows, waits for an answer, and Julian looks at the ground, sighs.

“Yes, I suppose if it were ever relevant in any way, I would trust him with my life.”

“And I trust you with mine. Which is very, very relevant.” He tilts his head, looks at Julian with calm eyes. “So it follows that we can then trust him with both of ours.”

Julian blinks, looks away. “I’m... not sure that it does, actually.” It’s not really a denial, it’s just a refutation of his logic, which means Julian is still mulling it over. _Just a little more..._

“I am sure enough to ask you to do so. Please. For me.”

That pulls Julian’s gaze back to his own. He frowns. “For you? I don’t understand.”

“Then let me make it clear.” He sighs a little, settles back, puts some distance between them. “You are trying to reconcile who you feel you should be with who you fear you are becoming. That is impossible, my dear. Soon you’ll realize that you must either accept the change, or eliminate the thing that is changing you. That thing is me. And I do not at all wish to be eliminated.” He keeps a smile on his face as he speaks, he keeps his tone light, and Julian sucks in breath, eyes wide.

“I’m not – I’m not going to do that!”

“I see.” He nods a thank-you. “I’m reassured by that. I admit, I very much expected you to cut your losses and run, a few weeks ago. Can you truly say that you have never considered it?”

Julian has no answer for him. His gaze drops low; he studies the ground, and there’s no mask, there’s nothing, and now it’s Garak who finds himself looking away as a completely unhelpful feeling roils within him. It’s pain of a sort. It’s also a strange joy. It’s a vulnerability. It is, rather tritely, love, and he controls it in the only way he can: he limits its expression to his voice alone. “My dear, I do not want to lose you.”

Julian looks up, almost startled, and whatever it is he sees on Garak’s face, it makes his eyes widen. But he doesn’t answer.

Which is fair. It _is_ fair.

And so Garak sits beside him and says nothing at all. Instead, he looks out at the multicoloured forest spread out before them, at the glitter of light from the lake. There’s a bird beneath them, drifting through the air. Its wings are wide, its progress slow. It’s hunting, spinning on a thermal of warm air, rising until it can see everything beneath it. It reminds him of a honge, although it looks nothing like one; still, there’s similarity in the predatory intent, in the patient hunger. He’s caught by it, drawn in, and he doesn’t realize it has him until he’s startled by the touch of Julian’s hand on his shoulder.

He suppresses his reflexive twitch and looks over at Julian, keeping his face calm and pleasant.

The face that looks back is doing much the same, but there’s something in the eyes...

“I can’t promise you anything about any of this.”

“Of course you can’t.” He keeps his voice light, laughing, and Julian squeezes his shoulder.

_“_ _Listen.”_

That pressure is almost painful. He lets it sink in, waits.

“All I can say is that I’ll try, all right? I’ll try, and... I’ll talk to Miles. I don’t know...” His voice trails off. Garak listens. “God, what he’ll say... but... I don’t know, maybe this was a mistake, but God knows I’ve made enough of those by now and I’m still here, right? So maybe...” He blinks. His gaze rises to meet Garak’s.

“I’ll try. But I don’t know where this is going to go.”

That’s honest. That’s true. It stings, and it’s more than he could ever ask for. He can’t quite push down his emotion, and no doubt it shows in his eyes as he nods. “Neither do I, my dear. But I thank you anyway.”

There’s a small smile on Julian’s face now. “You may regret this.”

“I doubt it.” His hand rises to cover Julian’s, squeezes it as hard as Julian’s is squeezing his shoulder, and although Julian’s eyes widen a bit, he doesn’t pull away. Instead, Julian exhales, a long, slow breath through pursed lips, and he looks where Garak’s looking, out at the world.

Garak points with his free hand, indicating the not-honge. “Look.”

“Oh!” Julian watches, mouth falling open slightly as he follows its movement – and then they are both startled as suddenly the bird folds its wings and dives. A few moments later, a triumphant keen rings out. Yes, very like a honge; he’s glad it’s down there, away from them.

“Relax, Elim…” Julian’s fingers tighten briefly on his shoulder, and he hadn’t even realized he’d tensed up.

“Forgive me, my dear. It simply…” _Reminds me of something,_ he doesn’t say; instead he looks over at Julian, who’s looking back at him.

“Tell me.”

He blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Tell me what it made you think of. Seems only fair, after all. Tit for tat.” But there’s no laughter in Julian’s eyes, just a quiet demand: _tell me something true._

He’s right. It’s only fair. And so Garak nods and thinks back, and spins a tale for Julian of a wilderness, and of friends who weren’t exactly, and of a job to be done, and if he doesn’t tell quite the whole story, well, neither has Julian. Julian listens, finishing his lunch, and when he’s done his story, Julian tells him about the time he and his cousin Rania got lost in the woods, and that reminds Garak of a training exercise that went sadly awry, which in turn reminds Julian of…

It’s an exercise in honesty, more or less, and it suits him well. _I need the practice._ And Julian… well, Julian needs the reassurance, doesn’t he.

The stories carry them through their lunch, through the forest, through the afternoon.


	4. Chapter 4

“Ah – oh, _mercies!”_

He awakens in agony. For a moment he’s back in that bed, back in the dark, underground and everything hurts and the walls are closing in—

“Elim!”

There’s a hand on his shoulder. He flinches away from it, _no, don’t,_ and then suddenly he’s awake, aware, gasping on the little couch in front of the fireplace in the cottage, and what on earth...

It’s his leg, just his leg; oh, little mercies, it’s a relief and it’s horribly funny. What he mistook for withdrawal is the dark spectre of a naptime charley horse, and he gasps laughter as he tries to straighten himself out.

“My apologies, Julian, I’m – I’m simply – _oh!”_

But Julian has already figured it out, is already moving to feel his leg, a frown on his face, and this is fascinating: here is a different kind of mask altogether. Here is Doctor Julian Bashir, focussed, thinking.

His hand moves on Garak’s calf. “Does it hurt when I do this?”

_“_ _Yes—”_

“Shh, all right, relax.” Now Julian’s got both hands rubbing at the tension, easing him, and he can’t help but make a sound as Julian grips firmly, presses just there. It’s not a happy sound.

Julian looks up at him, half-smiling. “Hush, Elim. Sometimes one must hurt to heal, right?”

“Very clever, Julian – _ah!”_

Now he’s tutting over Garak’s calf, shaking his head, musing to himself. “You overdid it today – nothing for weeks and then a hike. I should’ve known better than to drag you out for so long. And you didn’t drink nearly enough, did you... no wonder you’ve cramped up...”

He’s not particularly pleased to be summarized as a case note, and so he breaks into Julian’s thoughts: _“_ _Thank_ you, Doctor.”

Oh. That was perhaps a sharper tone than he’d wanted. It nets him a look, a frown... but Julian lets it go. “Do you want an ibuprofen or something...?”

“No. No medication. Thank you.” It’s irrational. He knows it. But the idea of pills makes him itchy these days, and Julian seems to understand that; he nods, doesn’t argue.

“A warm bath would help.”

 _That,_ on the other hand, is something that sounds positively delightful, especially after spending a good part of his day outside in the chill of fall. “You’ve talked me into it.”

There’s a strange moment then, as Julian slides an arm under his shoulders to help him up, and their eyes meet. They’ve both been here before.

The last time he’d shrugged him off, furious, resentful, _I don’t need help—_

_And what did your pride get you, Elim?_

And so he smiles, lets Julian help him up, lets Julian shoulder part of his weight as he limps to the little bathroom, and he leans uselessly against the tub as Julian runs the water and fiddles with the hot and cold. He could do it all himself, of course he could, but that really isn’t the point, is it...?

“How’s that?”

He bends down carefully, dips a hand into the water. It’s near-scalding. He smiles. “Perfect.”

And it’s quite unbelievable that Julian nods, leans up against the wall, tugs off his socks—

Julian catches him staring. Perhaps his eyes are wide, for Julian tilts his head, smiles. “I thought I might join you. If you think there’s room.”

The tub is small, but he’s not an idiot. “Absolutely. My tub is yours.”

And they do both manage to fit, although it’s no doubt a ridiculous sight: there’s no room at all for Julian’s arms, and so one of them is propped up against the wall and the other hangs out of the tub, and his knees poke up out of the water. Garak, meanwhile, has his legs stretched out as straight as he can, on Julian’s insistence, and his arms rest along the sides of the tub. Anywhere that he isn’t, Julian is. It should be extremely claustrophobic, and that thought does make him catch his breath – but it’s bright and warm in the bathroom, not dark and damp and still. Also, Julian is smiling at him from not at all far away, and that does seem to have a remarkably calming influence.

Rather than panicking over nothing, it would be better to enjoy the rippling of the water against his skin. Even better, that appears to be an option his body will actually permit him to pursue. _How pleasant._ And so he leans his head back against the wall, closes his eyes and breathes, and the water does feel very, very good on his whimpering muscles.

“Helps, doesn’t it.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement, and he smiles, doesn’t open his eyes.

“I should know to trust you by now, shouldn’t I.”

“As much as you ever trust anyone, I suppose.” It’s said laughingly. It’s not funny.

He opens his eyes, looks at Julian.

“I do trust you, Julian.”

The face he sees looking back is calm, considering, smiling just a little, and not wearing any kind of mask. It’s just Julian, thinking.

“I suppose you do, at that. Will wonders never cease.” There’s pleasure in his tone, and a firm hand slides up Garak’s calf, rubs at the sore muscle there; _oh,_ it hurts and it’s wonderful, and he can’t help but make a small noise. His eyes close again as he forces himself to relax, to slip down in the water until it’s just at his chin, and now Julian’s working with both hands, kneading out the tension. _Mmm…_ mercies, it’s almost illicitly pleasurable.

_And I should certainly know._

The thought makes him snort a small laugh; mercies, he must be tired. Still, though, not so bad, because he hears Julian chuckle in response, and he relaxes further as those excellent hands press at his muscles, at the twists within them, fingers pushing deep and rubbing at his poor abused tendons. Soon he’s drifting, slipping into something of a waking dream where water laps and light shines through his closed eyelids and Julian’s humming something soft to himself as he works, as his hands move, working their way up and over, up and...

_Oh...!_

That’s... not a painful area. Sensitive, yes. Painful, no. He keeps his eyes closed, tries not to react, but it’s hard not to breathe slightly faster. Composure is important, isn’t it?

He opens his eyes just a little. Julian is looking back at him, questioning, smiling.

“Can I…?”

Small, enclosed spaces are suddenly totally irrelevant. He blinks, nods, and Julian’s smile widens; those hands slip back into lovely motion, and his eyes slide shut. _Mmm._ And what those hands are doing feels good, it truly does, purely good; the sensation is somewhat muted, perhaps, but still much, much better than nothing at all, and it’s uncoiling him, loosening him. He lets the water support him, grips the edges of the tub with both hands, breathes long and slow and lets Julian do what he’s so very, very good at, and oh, the feeling’s less muted now, _much_ less muted, in fact muted is not at all an appropriate descriptor for what’s spreading inside of him, making his muscles twitch, his back arch, and his head comes up as he makes a sound he can’t quite control, _oh, mercies—!_

He gasps, lets his head thump back against the tub, briefly sees stars and doesn’t care, oh, perhaps life is worth living after all, and now Julian scoots forward, braces himself, leans over Garak and kisses him gently while he does something rather deft with a washcloth, and when he pulls away Garak is smiling in a way that he’d be quite embarrassed to have anyone else see.

_Simple pleasures. Yes. I remember._

Julian’s now running a hand along his body, stroking lightly, lightly, and Garak’s over-sensitized skin is positively delighting in the touch, in the gentleness of it, the very-nearly-nothing of the tracing of those fingers. He can’t help it. He sighs aloud, and Julian laughs.

“Feeling better?”

“Mmm. Better than what?”

“Than you did ten minutes ago.”

“Immensely. Incredibly.”

“Glad to hear it.”

He opens his eyes, looks at Julian, and Julian shakes his head at him.

“Don’t even think about it. I owed you one.”

“I wasn’t aware this was a trade economy.”

He’s silenced with a brusque _shh,_ and he doesn’t argue; he’s feeling deliciously lazy, and the water is warm, and there’s nowhere to go, nothing to do, and perhaps...

His eyes have drifted shut again. Now he opens them very slightly, peering through his lashes at Julian’s face.

Still no mask. Contemplation. Fondness. Thoughtfulness around the eyes… and there’s a confidence there, too, that Garak can’t recall seeing on Julian’s face for some time now.

He mustn’t read too much into it. One cannot build a future on a couple of conversations, a convenient leg cramp, and a bathtub rendezvous.

_But perhaps we can begin to rebuild one this way...?_

It’s all speculative, anyway. He can’t shape the events that are to come. The last month is proof paid of that. Better, instead, to drift in the water; to let his mouth stretch in a smile; to take what he’s got while he’s got it.

_Day one. This is day one._


	5. Chapter 5

It’s not all as easy as that. That moment is probably the high point, in fact.

He and Julian spend most of that night talking. He cooks dinner; it gets cold. They sit side by side on the sofa, watching each other’s faces as they try to build a baseline, to find some kind of common ground. Sometimes the conversation is pleasant. Sometimes it’s not.

In bed, there’s not much sleep. No lovemaking, either, although there are a few moments of interrupted dialogue, here and there, between the words... but there are more important things at stake here, and not much time. As the hours tick by, Garak is more and more aware of how ephemeral this little bubble really is. Their real lives are waiting.

When sleep finally finds him, his dreams are terrible.

In the morning, he wakes to the sound of rain falling outside, a soft and steady susurrus, and to Julian’s slow breathing, and he lies listening to both of these things for a long, uncountable time.

When Julian wakes, he curls against Garak, and there’s an unspoken agreement to steal a few moments of quiet. It’s not a game of let’s pretend, not quite. It’s something a bit more non-linear than that. _This is what we used to be,_ their breathing seems to say; _this is what we need to remember._

Throughout the day, they talk. There is quiet argument. There is loud argument. At one point, while they walk through the forest, there’s a brief shouting match, indulged in perhaps because the forest is so very oppressively quiet around them, pressing in on them, its shadows dark in the grey drizzle. Shortly afterwards, though, there’s an embrace. It’s incredibly uncomfortable. The rain drips down the collar of Garak’s coat, and if there is a more useless hat to wear in the rain than a toque, he can’t imagine it. But Julian’s face is pressed into his neck, his arms are wrapped around Garak, he’s squeezed nearly breathless, and there’s got to be some truth in that. He latches on to it, clings tight: this is what Julian needs him to be, plain and simple Garak, wet in the rain, and his complications are spiralling away as Julian holds him in his arms.

_Perhaps I can leave them behind me, here...?_

Does he need to take his past back with him? _Can any of us ever leave our pasts behind?_

Deeds do tend to travel with one, despite changed situations and changed names; they accrue silently, and their weight shapes the future. They don’t need to be acknowledged openly for that to be true. The things one has done, the things one has been changed by: these things leave their mark, and it cannot be erased, no matter how much one might wish it could be so.

_My past shapes me. But it does not control me. Nothing controls me, now._

This is the thought he carries with him through his day, as the two of them talk and pack and pick at a desultory lunch of leftovers. He says as much to Julian at one point, a passing thought in the middle of a rather intense conversation, and Julian looks at him for a moment, eyes narrowed. Whatever he’s pulled up sinks back down, though, and it’s soon lost in the many, many things they’re trying to put right.

Too much for one day. It’s impossible to think that this could be fixed in one day. A year, perhaps, if Julian will give him one. Perhaps even longer than that.

 _Every day. I will try every single day,_ and he looks at Julian, who’s glancing rather wistfully around the small cottage as he packs his suitcase, getting ready to go. He’s weak for him in a way he would never have allowed himself to be, once. Part of him is still resentful of that, still clings to an identity that is no longer relevant. Another part of him wonders what he’s becoming.

As the afternoon begins to shade into evening, neither of them can put off their departure any longer. Time is inexorable. Julian has responsibilities; he’s needed. Garak has a shop, and while he would, frankly, be happy to put a match to the thing and watch it flame out of existence, he may as well continue with it. It’s part of his new life. He needs to start living in the identity he’s built from nothing, because that is what Julian needs him to be.

 _No one controls me, indeed. He controls me._ But that isn’t fair. Living simply to please another person… that’s just another kind of lie. Still, it’s been a very, very long time now that Garak’s lived only to serve, quite literally; as soon as he was done serving, they’d expected him to be done living, too. _I find that I rather enjoy the living..._ but he’s not quite certain how to go on without some kind of direction.

Perhaps he’ll determine that too, one day. In the meantime, a lie will do if it serves some kind of higher purpose.

He locks the door of the cabin, turns to see Julian trying to fold himself into the rental car. For a moment he lets himself look, taking him in. He’s so much more than he appears to be, that one, and sometimes Garak still cannot fathom what use Julian has for him at all.

_Someone like me isn’t for someone like him._

He catches that thought, blinks.

_In which case, I’d best continue working on being someone much, much better._

That’s a better thought. He doesn’t think it’s appropriate, exactly, to tell Julian about it, though. It’s a shame, too, because once they’re back on the road, the highway humming under the wheels of the little grey car, the conversation seems to dry up. Instead, here’s the radio again, singing its same mournful songs; Julian hums along and taps at his cell phone, and Garak drives, fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

“What time do you think we’ll be back?”

“Mmm.” He darts a quick look at the dashboard clock. “Perhaps eight o’clock?”

“Right, thanks.” Now Julian’s working on his phone again.

“Do you have plans?” Too much to hope for, to think that this would continue. _Foolish._

“I thought I might see if Miles is free tonight. Meet him for a beer or something.” His tone is bright and brittle. It’s awful, which is unimportant; Garak wastes no time in nodding his assent.

“I think that is a very, very good idea, my dear.”

“Great, thanks.” The smile in his voice grates on Garak’s ears, and what can he do? _I’ve done all I can, now..._

The night falls down around them as they drive. The headlights press at the darkness, trying to push aside the curtain of rain, and Garak’s attention is mostly on the road. Still, he’s aware of Julian next to him, playing with his phone, not talking, and oh, this is pointless, it’s useless to worry, and yet he can’t help it. The city looms in front of them, their lives are waiting, and why aren’t they stealing every moment they have? If he must go back to what’s waiting for him, why can’t he continue the little dream for just a short while longer?

But Julian is not talking, and Garak can’t find the words.

_Leave it. Leave him alone, interrogator. Must you know everything that passes through his mind?_

One hour passes, then two, with nothing between them but the sound of breath and Julian’s soft humming, and his mind won’t shut up. _It’s all for nothing,_ it says, and _you are a fool,_ and _what were you thinking?_ and he doesn’t debate it, doesn’t engage, lets the thoughts pass through. His hand taps the gear shift in time with the music, and when Julian puts a hand over his and grips tight, tight, it’s completely unexpected.

Garak doesn’t say anything.

Julian sighs, turns off his phone. In the periphery of Garak’s vision, he bows his head.

“Look. I… I need to talk for a little while, all right? Because I… there’s more going on here than you know about, and… look, I just need to tell you something, all right? And I need you not to say anything at all.”

He doesn’t look at him. He nods assent.

“Fine.” A sigh, deep and slow. “I need to tell you about my parents.”

The night rolls on as Julian talks and Garak listens, trying to understand. Before them, the city lights shine gradually brighter, illuminating a future they can’t quite see.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Complementing Baggage](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10835514) by [Kittyknowsthings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittyknowsthings/pseuds/Kittyknowsthings)
  * [[Podfic] Splice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11487957) by [wcdarling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wcdarling/pseuds/wcdarling)




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